"Said," and she laughs her old mocking laugh. "Of course I _said_, of course I say it still; but then proofs are different. She loves Keith Athelstone, and he loves her; and you--love me. It is a triangle that you can't make into a square. She has the best of it now. Let her alone, and let her triumph. It may be my turn next." Infatuated as Sir Francis is, something in the cold, measured hatred of this woman's last words strikes upon him with a chill almost of fear. He would rather have seen her furious, violent, tempestuous, than as she looked now. She was not the sort of woman to care for a "waiting race," and he knew some deeper purpose underlaid her words. She turns on him suddenly again, and stamps her foot. "_Will_ you go? Do you wish to disgrace me publicly? Have I not suffered enough at your hands?" "But you will write; you will tell me where you are?" he implores. "Yes--yes; I will write. Only go. I must be alone; I must think. And to-morrow I leave. Arrange all that." He leaves her then, and Lady Jean rings her bell and bids her maid pack immediately; she has received news that necessitates her return to Paris. Early next morning she leaves the Chase. Her hostess does not appear, or send any message of farewell. Sir Francis drives his guest away to the station. He has not seen or spoken to his wife. "You have triumphed," says Lady Etwynde, standing by Lauraine's side, and watching the carriage as it disappears down the great oak avenue. "Triumphed?" Lauraine sighs heavily as she turns her aching eyes away from the dark forest glades that stretch for miles around. "It is a poor triumph, Etwynde, and laden with bitter memories, and weighted with many fears. Something tells me that I shall suffer for this before long." And Lady Etwynde echoes that fear in her own heart, though now she speaks all brave and cheering words that her tender love can frame. "How will it end?" she thinks despairingly. "How will it end?" Perhaps it was well that she could not tell at that hour, in that time. CHAPTER XXX "Why does Lauraine not come to town?" says Mrs. Douglas, impatiently, to Lady Etwynde. "She must be moped to death in that dreary Northumberland place. It gives me the horrors even to think of it."